


what's the chances of you rollin' with me?

by groundopenwide



Series: what would frat bro kyle do? [2]
Category: Bastille (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Frat Bro Kyle, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, a frat bro and a music nerd sitting in a bed five feet apart bc they're gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29273997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundopenwide/pseuds/groundopenwide
Summary: How was he supposed to know Charlie would actually want tostudy?
Relationships: Charlie Barnes/Kyle Simmons
Series: what would frat bro kyle do? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149857
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	what's the chances of you rollin' with me?

**Author's Note:**

> the sequel to [keep it on the low](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23161846) no one asked for.
> 
> let's all pour one out for frat bro kyle, aka my favorite creation of all time.
> 
> title stolen from [buy u a drank.](https://youtu.be/dBrRBZy8OTs)

Charlie’s a really good tutor.

(And no, Kyle’s  _ not _ just saying that because Charlie’s mouth was handcrafted by the gods or something, okay? Get your fucking mind out of the gutter.)

Charlie actually  _ likes  _ this jazz shit. Kyle’s a music person, of course he is (why else would he take an 8AM class on the history of jazz—it’s required for his music production minor, duh), but Charlie is...next level. He lives music. He breathes music. He talks about this Oceansize band Kyle’s never heard of as if they personally birthed him or something.

He’s dedicated—almost too dedicated. 

It’s a little impressive and a lot annoying. Like right now: Charlie’s just sitting there across the bed from him, studying the textbook in his lap as if he  _ isn’t  _ wearing one of Kyle’s faded Pike t-shirts and there  _ isn’t  _ a purpling bruise blooming on his neck from Kyle biting at it earlier. It’s fucking distracting, is what it is. Like, how is Kyle supposed to focus on anything with Charlie looking like  _ that? _

(Which, okay, so maybe Charlie had only slept over after they’d smoked a bowl together last night because Kyle had asked him to. Maybe Kyle had just wanted to see what Charlie would look like in his clothes. And maybe it’s exactly the suckerpunch he thought it would be, Charlie’s collarbone on full display thanks to the overstretched collar, but come on. How was he supposed to know Charlie would actually want to  _ study? _ )

“Okay,” Charlie says, “so Buddy Bolden was—”

“I think we need a break,” Kyle declares, leaning across the bed to snap Charlie’s textbook shut. 

Charlie gives him a Look™, the one where his big eyebrows go all furrowed because he’s acting disappointed but in reality doesn’t really give a fuck. Kyle knows it’s all for show because Charlie never seems to complain much once their clothes are off.

“You’re a horrible influence,” Charlie says this time, once Kyle is on top of him and the jazz textbook has been kicked to some forgotten place on the floor.

Kyle kisses him quiet with far too much tongue, since he knows how much Charlie hates that shit.

“And you’re all talk,” he says afterwards.

Charlie frowns at him and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “And  _ you’re _ fucking gross—”

Kyle kisses him again, cleaner this time. Charlie gives in after a few seconds and gets his hands under Kyle’s t-shirt, wrapping them around his back to pull him closer. His fingers are fucking freezing. Normally Kyle would say something, but he’s finally gotten Charlie to shut up, which is usually a much longer, bloodier battle, so he’s going to revel in it for a little while longer. He fits their hips together so that he can feel Charlie against him, and  _ yeah,  _ that’s good. Charlie tastes like his toothpaste and still smells a bit like weed, and he  _ feels  _ like he’s been in Kyle’s bed all day, his borrowed shirt rumpled and his hair sleep-soft beneath Kyle’s fingers— 

“Yo, Kyle, do you have—”

The door bursts open. Kyle takes his hands out of Charlie’s hair and Charlie wrenches his mouth away, his temple bonking Kyle’s nose as he whips his head to the side. 

“Ow,” Kyle says, and then, “fucking knock next time, Nick.”

“Oh, sorry,” says Nick from the doorway, not looking sorry at all. “Didn’t know you had company. Hey, Charlie.”

Charlie looks mortified, all flushed cheeks and eyes bugging-out-the-head. Kyle really wants to kiss him again, but apparently that has to wait for the moment. Charlie pushes at him—presumably to get him to roll off—but it’s ineffectual at best. Kyle stays put.

“What’s up?” he asks Nick.

“I’m out of deodorant. Can I use yours?”

“Over there,” Kyle says, pointing across the room to his overflowing dresser. Beneath him, Charlie shoves at his stomach again, harder this time. He ignores it.

Nick grabs the deodorant and salutes them on his way out. “Have fun.”

Charlie waits for the door to close, then decides to make Kyle’s stomach his punching bag for a third time. It actually kind of hurts, so Kyle finally leaves him be, flopping onto his back on the mattress next to him.

“What the fuck,” Charlie says.

“No locks allowed in the house. Sorry.”

Charlie does not seem assuaged, his expression still awfully pinched, so Kyle props himself up on his side and rests his palm flat against Charlie’s stomach, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt. He rubs until some of Charlie’s forehead uncinches. “Nick’s a good guy. It’s fine.”

“It’s just—I thought they’d be more—”

“Homophobic?”

“Well, yeah.”

Kyle skates his fingers downwards, brushing the waistband of Charlie’s (also borrowed, also way too fucking big, also Kyle’s cause of death) sweatpants. “So, basically, you also thought  _ I _ was a next-level asshole.”

“Still do,” Charlie says, but it’s a half-truth, his voice pitching upwards at the end. His breathing has gotten shallower and he shifts a little beneath Kyle’s hand, restless. “You’re just—a slightly more tolerable asshole.”

“One that jerks you off and takes you to Waffle House.”

“Oh, are we going to Waffle House?”

Kyle answers by finally putting his hand on Charlie’s dick. It’s the right answer, if the sound Charlie makes is any indication. They’ve done this enough times now that Kyle knows exactly how Charlie likes it, knows what gets his eyes to close and his mouth (which, seriously—stuff of the  _ gods _ ) to drop open around those quiet little gasps Kyle’s grown to like so much. 

“Ah,” Charlie says now, voice cracking as his hips buck up into Kyle’s hand. “Get—”

It’s not even a full sentence, but it’s more than enough of a request for Kyle to shift closer, probably far too eagerly, to kiss him. Charlie sighs into his mouth as Kyle works his hand faster. This,  _ this  _ is always the best part: Charlie slack-jawed and needy and right on the edge, his whole body going rigid before he comes. It’s still fucking mindblowing that Kyle gets to do this—that he gets to take pretentious as shit, weirdly proper, full-of-music-snobbery Charlie apart with his hands and his mouth (and sometimes even other things).

“Got jizz on your clothes,” Charlie says afterwards, tugging the hem of his shirt back down to his waist with a pleased little smile on his face. His face is still pink and his hair is a messy halo against the sheets, and jesus fucking  _ christ,  _ Kyle is obsessed with him. 

He rolls away onto his back, just long enough to get himself off (which, no shit, isn’t very long at all, thanks to Charlie watching him the whole time). He’s thinking about Charlie’s smile, and Charlie’s face when he comes, and Charlie rolling his eyes every time he tells Kyle to  _ shut the fuck up, _ and Charlie in that Pike shirt, and—

Yeah. Yeah, that’ll do it.

He lies there for a few seconds when he’s done, waiting to catch his breath. This is usually about the time that Charlie makes up some stupid ass excuse to leave.  _ Homework  _ or  _ I need a fucking shower  _ or  _ Ben texted. _ Asking him to stay the night had already been pushing it—it was time for Charlie to get back to acting like the hours spent in Kyle’s company were the worst part of his day. 

Instead, Kyle is suddenly gifted with a load of Charlie on top of him. 

“You promised me Waffle House,” Charlie says.

Kyle blinks up at him. “I didn’t promise you shit.”

“I want bacon. And then we should study. Like, for real.”

And Kyle—well, he’ll drop approximately a hundred dollars on bacon at Waffle House if it means Charlie will hang out and ask him about the fathers of jazz for a little while longer. 

So he grins and says, “Bacon. Fine. You got it, bro.”

Charlie sticks a middle finger right in his face in response, but he’s grinning back. “Fuck you.”


End file.
